


No Light and Transient Cause

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcshep_match, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-17
Updated: 2008-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney McKay has an opinion on everything, including whether, in times of crisis, John Sheppard has any business risking death.  Answer: no, don't be utterly <em>stupid</em>, what kind of ridiculous half-wit are you <em>anyway</em>?  Small casting spoiler for season five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light and Transient Cause

"When is someone going to acknowledge that sending me on diplomatic missions is a complete and utter waste of everyone's time?" Rodney asked, snapping up his tac vest.

John bit back a grin as he checked his sidearm and slid it back into its holster. "Aw, Rodney, c'mon," he wheedled. "Not a _complete_ waste of time."

"Yeah. S'entertaining," Ronon put in. "You get all red faced."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "And that's worth dragging me away from . . ."

" _Rod_ ney," Teyla interrupted, addressing him with what John liked to think of as her Level II Serious Face. "There is a strong component of ritual to all diplomatic ventures. You have visited Juni'i four times. Were you to be omitted from the party, there would be questions."

"Sure, sure, like 'how long did it take you to work out it was better to leave him at home?'" Rodney huffed.

"You'll be fine," John said, smacking him companionably on the back as he passed. "We'll go, zone out while Teyla finds out what's on their mind, drink some of that . . . what's it called . . ."

"Krinaal," Ronon offered.

"Right, Krinaal. Come home in time for roasted god-knows-what and . . ."

"Why are we even going anyway?" Rodney asked, following John as he led the way toward the gateroom. "Modifications to our alliance? Isn't that usually code for 'shoot you full of holes and sacrifice you to technology we've let rust for ten thousand years?'"

"The Juni'i are peaceful," Teyla reminded him.

"Which is no doubt why they all carry guns and beat each other up for sport," Rodney muttered, coming to a halt on the gateroom floor, checking the clip that held his P-90 to his vest.

"It's just Dashan," Ronon put in, twirling his own gun before he slapped it into his holster. "Ritual."

"Yeah," John agreed, pointing in Ronon's direction. "That. It's hardly bare-knuckle fist fights down the bar."

Rodney squinted at him incredulously. "There are whole parts of your life I just know nothing about, aren't there?"

"Yep," John nodded, and slid on his sunglasses as the gate symbols began to engage.

"The point remains," Teyla continued, as if she hadn't been interrupted by three men of lower social intelligence than herself, "that the Juni'i have always been faithful in their agreements with my people as well as yours. We have nothing to fear from talking to them – it is likely Michael's unknown whereabouts have caused fresh concern among them and they wish to discuss a proactive defense. They are a people who have valued such action many times in the past."

"Yes, yes," Rodney sighed as the gate began to engage. "Fine. I'll just sit there. A skill I honed _so_ well as a child."

Teyla smiled. "I would be grateful."

"All right, kids," John said as the wormhole rushed out to meet them. "Time to go find out what the nice people want." And he led the way across the event horizon, surrendering himself to the fractured curve of space.

*****

It was just before midday on the other side of the gate. John paused to gather his bearings, to absorb the distance between their position and the walled city of Hapiin that rose in the east, towering over a wash of uneven plains. Salt hung in the air – John checked the urge to relax at the muffled sound of breaking waves.

"The weather has held," Teyla said, smiling as she surveyed the valley in which they stood, wildflowers standing tall enough to brush against Ronon's knee. "They had worried that the rains would come too soon, with too great a force. But the jevis flowers are still blooming."

Rodney scrunched up his face. "You've been getting weather reports?" he asked.

Teyla inclined her head in assent. "When trading with others, it is helpful to learn of the challenges they face. Were the jevis gone, we would know that there would be no blass seed come fall."

"Right. Blass seed," Rodney nodded, rooting in his tac vest for his hand-held scanner. "Heaven knows we need more alien grains turned into teeth-wrecking pancakes. I swear I almost lost a molar on those Zavish beans."

"Blass seed's different. Makes you strong," Ronon put in. "Good for your sperm."

John raised an eyebrow. "Huh."

"Good, _how_?" Rodney asked.

"Makes good babies." Ronon shrugged. "Big ones."

John blinked and tried to find something intelligent to offer. "Huh," he said again.

"And big is good?" Rodney asked, seeming unable to let the matter go. "Isn't big, you know, problematic for the woman who's having the kid? She's gotta –" He gestured, presumably to intimate the entire messy business of labor.

Ronon shrugged. "The _malasha_ helps."

"And what's that?" Rodney asked, perplexed. "Grain alcohol? Raw opium to dull the pain? A large hammer with which to invite unconsciousness?" Teyla's recent pregnancy had not made Rodney noticeably more enlightened in matters of labor and delivery.

"Midwife. They train so that – "

"Gentlemen?" Teyla said gently. "Perhaps we might postpone this conversation until we are back in Atlantis?" She raised her eyebrows and looked meaningfully toward the mouth of the valley, where a party of Juni'i had appeared.

"Yeah," John said supportively. "Let's . . . postpone. With the – " He grimaced. "All of it."

"You should eat some," Ronon said, aiming a kick to the back of John's boot. "Be good for you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not looking to impregnate anyone right now," John clarified.

"Makes sex better too," Ronon offered.

"Oh, really?" Rodney asked.

John shifted from foot to foot. "I don't need any help with that either, thanks, buddy."

Rodney looked in his direction. "How do you know? What if blass seed is, say, the elixir of mind-blowing . . ."

Teyla cleared her throat, saving John from the torment of discussing orgasms with Rodney McKay. "Our friends are close," she murmured quietly, then, raising her voice. "Abigata! Danntus! It is good to see you again!"

"Teyla!" came back a woman's voice. "It is good to see you too!"

The Juni'i were the friendliest people on Jun'aatan. John had always figured they had to be, living closer to the gate than the Tatleen or Menot who lived among the lower forests and on the islands of the four great seas. The Juni'i's towns – Kalim, Jushno, and G'taaya, as well as Hapiin – were bustling hubs of trade, known across the galaxy for the seemingly inexhaustible breadth of wares they offered to anyone who could pay, their markets stretching down well-paved streets, their merchants doing business out of buildings two and more storeys tall. There were similarities between all the towns – few fortifications, an airbay or two, a host of schools, numerous libraries, and busy warehouses linked by a winding system of canals. But there were telling differences. Hapiin was the seat of government, and there was little that couldn't be seen from the observatory towers in the town's main square. John had climbed there by invitation on their second visit to the planet, had seen for himself how the gate flashed silver in the west, how the ocean surged in Jushno's southern harbor, how the prayerful spires of Kalim reached toward the sky and the dark smudge of G'taaya's fields darkened the eastern horizon.

"It is good to be back," Teyla said happily, jolting John from his reverie. "These visits have always been a respite for us, even when you call in times of trouble."

Gata smiled ruefully. "We face such troubles again."

John tilted his head, listening attentively as they walked. "Michael?"

"Among other things," Gata nodded. "But that is talk for the Great Hall, not these hills."

"You worried about spies?" Ronon asked.

"No," said Dann, smiling wistfully. "We simply wish for respite, as Teyla said."

Conversation quickly fell to mundane matters – to the shipment of _tensa_ cloth that had arrived from the far moons of Vol and which glowed, ivory bright, against Gata's dark skin; a laughing description of Torren's new habit of burping himself awake in the night; news from the Agan, that the hesta birds were dying once more; a filthy joke that the Menotian sailors had whispered in the harbor and which made John laugh so hard Ronon felt it necessary to pound him on the back. Only Rodney was quiet, head bent over his hand-held data-pad, stylus flying as he processed an inventory of information gathered with every step. John drifted back toward him, a practice made habit over such a span of time that John almost believed it was unintentional – that he was checking on a team member; that he wasn't more interested in Rodney than almost anyone else. He bent an ear to Dann and Ronon's attempts to improvise lyrics to the latest Kalimese rhyme-song as he walked, to Teyla and Gata's philosophical debate about the rebel Gishn on Naya IV, but it was Rodney he wanted. "Anything?" he asked at last, reaching his side.

"Pollution's up," Rodney mumbled. "Usually it's just around the air bays, but contamination's drifting out over the city today. Up from the harbor too."

John tilted his head, squinted at the wharves. "I don't see heavy craft."

"Me either." Rodney agreed. "Maybe whatever it was has already gone. The Tenotians were trying to perfect steamships, last we heard?"

"Would that pollute?" John glanced up at the sky. "Vapor trails."

"Three of them," Rodney scoffed.

"Just sayin'. What's causing the pollution isn't air traffic. At least, not today."

"Doesn't make sense," Rodney said, punching a sequence of numbers into the handheld. "Maybe it's just the sun this time of year. Hey, maybe _their_ ozone layer's depleted."

"Yeah. They look like the Aqua-net type," John agreed, jerking his head to Dann's loose, straight, shoulder-length hair.

"So, I'll turn the readings over to Evans when we get back," Rodney sighed, shoving the device back into his tac vest. "Maybe there's something she can see that I can't on first pass." He nodded toward the city. "Doesn't look polluted."

"Nope," John agreed.

Rodney fiddled with his gun. "I'm ready for that Krinaal now," he said with resignation. "We really should have brought a jumper. All we get from walking is a bad case of folk music from the Bobbsey Twins over there and an increased risk of my twisting my ankle in a rabbit hole. And then where will you be? Helpless."

"Helpless," John agreed, elbowing him as he smiled.

*****

If their job was to listen to Teyla hammer out diplomatic treaties, John supposed there were worse places to do it than Hapiin. At least the Juni'i understood the value of thick cushions on wooden chairs, and the Krinaal and cakes that accompanied every opening ceremony were usually good. The Great Hall was reliably cool, windows thrown open if the season was right, and since the day Rodney had figured out how to get the Ancient handhelds to talk nicely to his laptops, his tendency to splutter invective to off-world dignitaries had all but disappeared – he was much more interested in beating John's Tetris score than insulting the nearest monarch, priest, or scribe. To John, things seemed passably familiar, even welcome as they climbed the stairs from the street to the Hall; the same paintings, chipped bricks, and echo of their footsteps on stone. There was even some easy comfort in the way they paused outside the massive double doors of the Hall, waiting for Gata to rap three times with the heel of her _raki_ stick.

Then the doors swung open. "Holy fuck," Rodney breathed.

John pulled off his sunglasses and stood still in awe.

Arrayed on three sides of the room were rising sets of benches, crowded with people from numerous worlds. John recognized the robes of the Kalati, the body paint of the Aran, the somber weave of Pishan hoods, but there were many more, wearing armor, veils, neck-ties and tunics, ragged and rich sitting side by side. In the center of the room stood the table at which they'd always negotiated agreements, but the Juni'i who rose to greet them wore their robes of state, not the regular working clothes they usually preferred. The atmosphere was charged, and John clenched his jaw to keep in a string of fervent curses, wondering what cues he'd missed, what shreds of information he should have seen. He glanced at Ronon's shuttered face, saw the bob of Rodney's adam's apple, took in the tilt of Teyla's jaw.

"What is the meaning of this?" Teyla asked, and her grace barely masked the outrage John could read in her spine.

"Your weapons," Gata said gently. "You must surrender them at the threshold of this room."

"Like hell," Ronon growled.

"It has always been this way," Dann offered, as if the reminder might be soothing.

"See – I'm thinking not so much," John said, smiling insincerely, gesturing toward the assembled throng. "This is pretty damn new."

"Your weapons," Gata said again. "All have surrendered theirs – there are no arms inside this room."

John jerked his chin. "McKay?"

Rodney already held his scanner in his hand. "Nothing's giving off an energy reading but Ronon's gun," he offered tightly. "That said, we haven't exactly managed to create technology to tell us oh, where the knives are hidden, or who's toting Sarin gas."

John flexed his fingers as Gata shifted to stand in front of Teyla. " _Mena_ Emmagan," she said, using the honorific that Juni'i culture owed but that Teyla had asked them to defer. "We are peaceful people. We will not harm you. We have brought you here to talk as we have always done, and to ask that you listen."

John privately thought they had some nerve; the only thing between him and a hasty retreat involving a host of bullets and a bunch of C4 was Teyla's steady calm and their lack of a jumper – Rodney was right, they shouldn't have walked. Teyla glanced back at him, eyebrow raised in a wordless question, and he nodded his assent: _do what you gotta do_. Twisting her lips she turned back to their hosts, unclipped her gun and pressed it into Gata's waiting hands. "You brought us here under false pretenses," she said calmly. "We will listen . . ."

"We will?" Rodney asked, eyes wide, gaze skittering to John's for confirmation. John nodded tightly, once.

". . . but we will also remember." She pulled a knife from the casing at her hip and turned that over too. "Ronon? Rodney? John?"

John trusted her; he couldn't read politics in someone's expression the way Teyla could, didn't have her expertise to smooth out the contrary instincts warring in his gut. Still, when he handed over his guns, it was with the reticence of a soldier who hadn't yet talked his way out of a fight, and he forced himself into shallow distraction by trying to guess how many contraband knives Ronon had hidden in his hair, his boots, or his pants. Rodney was the last to give up his weapons, his forehead damp with sweat when he unclipped his P-90, snapping, "Can we just get on with this?" as he turned his sidearm over too. John understood, nudged Rodney's boot with his own, saw Rodney sag then pull in a breath in response, straighten his spine and all but order everyone to bring it on. _That's it_ , John thought. _That's my guy_.

There were murmurs in the hall as they stepped across the threshold, but they dissipated quickly as the team settled into a set of waiting chairs. Teyla claimed the center, Rodney at her left, Ronon at her right and John smiled as he fucked with balance and equilibrium, easing into the chair at Rodney's other side. Ronon turned his back on Teyla to stare defiantly at the crowd; chin lifted scornfully, Rodney folded his arms. John simply leaned back in his chair and smirked with the insubordinate charm that had launched every one of his superior officers into some stratosphere of fury at one time or another. It had been a while since he'd had chance to try out that smile.

"Welcome," said Elen'n, bowing before them. The seven-year ruler of the Juni'i, she was someone John had always liked – smart, impersonal, fond of tinkering with the engineering of the inter-city hover transports in her spare time – but today, dressed in robes of rich, dark green _tensa_ , she looked like someone who'd never thought to dirty her hands. "You are welcome."

John snorted softly, heard Ronon do the same.

Teyla inclined her head, more suited, John thought, to the business of state than the panel of pseudo-velvet-wearing aristocrats sitting across the table. "I would like to repeat the words I have often repeated, as leader of Athos, as ally to the Lanteans these past four years. But I cannot with an open heart say I feel welcome here today." She narrowed her eyes, offered a mirthless smile. "You must excuse my discourtesy, but the words would stick in my throat."

John watched as Elen'n pressed her lips together; she didn't seem angry, at least not yet.

"Perhaps ceremony is not our best ally today," Elen'n said.

"Thought _we_ were allies," Ronon said in as she sat down.

"You are a son of these stars, Ronon Dex. You are an ally by birth, as are you, Teyla Emmagan."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You are all allies," Elen'n clarified, "allies made by choice – and it is as allies that we have asked you here, today." She paused, made eye contact with each of them, one at a time. "We wish to renegotiate our agreement with Lantea, and with the forces that occupy the City of our Birth."

"And for that a gathering of nations is necessary?" Teyla asked skeptically, gesturing to the hundreds who watched silently, waiting.

"You see representatives of all those who would enter this agreement," Elen'n said.

John leaned forward, frowning, suspicious. "See – we already have agreements with a bunch of these worlds."

"And they wish those agreements altered," Elen'n said calmly. "It is their right, as it would be yours if circumstances changed."

John leaned back in his seat, watching her face, waiting for her tell.

"A little notice would have been nice," Rodney broke in, bitterly. "How exactly are we supposed to remember the nuance of a hundred different agreements made in a dozen different places with more people than any of us can begin to count? I barely remember where they _grow_ turna berries, never mind about which communities best need our medical help, and yes, absolutely, Teyla's good, but even _she's_ not that good without giving her the benefit of some preparation."

"We wish for one agreement," Elen'n said serenely, and unease flared low in John's gut. "It is simple. It will require little in the way of memorizing past law."

" _Really,_ " Rodney drawled.

"We wish you to leave this galaxy," Elen'n said clearly. "We wish you to leave and to agree that neither you nor your descendents will ever come back."

There was a long moment of silence, in which John could all but hear Rodney's thoughts expand at a rate of knots, exploding between synapses to push words toward his tongue. "No," John said, beating him to the punch, stealing the consequences for his own head if they were coming.

The hall erupted, representatives from every planet springing to their feet, yelling epithets, shaking fists. John glanced at the main doors – closed now – and the arch that led, he presumed, toward other rooms, the kitchens perhaps. He looked toward the windows – high, leaded, closer to the crowd than they were – his inventory of exits shrinking. _Think, think_ , he ordered himself as Rodney shifted restlessly in his chair, only stilling when Teyla briefly clasped his hand. She smiled at him, whispered something John couldn't hear, then stood, pushing back her chair and facing down the bedlam.

"Silence!" she yelled, striking the table with her fist. " _Silence_ in this Hall."

It couldn't be her words, John reasoned as the delegates began to quiet – only a handful of people could possibly hear her above their own fevered shouting. Perhaps it was her posture, the way she stood resolute and still, as if anyone with any sense at all would pay attention or suffer the consequences. Whatever the cause – and John vowed he was going to learn the trick before his hair turned solid gray – the delegates sat down again, and even their whispers died as Teyla surveyed the room.

She returned her gaze to Elen'n. "You will explain this," she said, and her voice was sharp.

"We have documented our reasons," Elen'n said, and she lifted her hand, flicked her wrist in a neat half-circle; a man at the far end of the negotiators' table stood in response, unrolling a length of parchment. The Juni'i had computers, John knew – this was all just more evidence that the Pegasus galaxy had an entirely inappropriate fascination with Medieval crap.

"Lanteans," said the clerk. "You returned the City of the Ancestors to a galaxy from which it had been hidden. We are grateful for this gift," he began.

Rodney wiped his palms on his pants. "Doesn't sound so bad?" he whispered, hopefully. John offered him a quick half-smile.

"But you have hoarded the blessings of that city, sharing the wonders therein with few, allowing none to study the science, the literature, the history that belongs to us all."

Rodney gaped. "Oh, now, that's just not . . ."

"Rodney," Teyla murmured.

He sighed and shifted a little in his chair.

"The weapons of the Ancestors have been yours alone; you have brought knowledge of other arms to this galaxy; you have advanced the scientific understanding of a handful of nations, not all. You have leached radiation into our skies; you have spread diseases to which we are not immune."

Ronon said something quietly, and kicked at the leg of an empty chair. John wondered which of the charges had inched under his skin.

"You alone woke the Wraith," the spokesman continued.

John bit back a wince.

"You caused death and destruction to prey upon planets that had not recovered from the culling one hundred years before."

John set his jaw, purposefully leaned back in his chair, and refused to look like a man who carried that particular guilt across his shoulders. Rodney glanced at him; he didn't look back.

"You engaged in medical experimentation that led to the founding of an entirely new species. These hybrids, these not-men and not-Wraith continue to unleash plagues upon our planets, kill our children, steal men and women against their will. You have meddled in affairs beyond your understanding; altered nannite codes and created a war that is without precedent in the seventh-generation memory of our worlds."

John ground his teeth together. "We get it," he said tersely, fueled by anger and guilt and a primitive urge to shout some sort of defense across the table, right into the faces of the Juni'i.

"Do you?" Elen'n asked pityingly . "I doubt that."

"Yeah? Lemme tell you something, lady . . ."

Teyla whipped her head around. "John."

He met her gaze, saw a plea, not an order, and bit down on the invective that hovered bitterly on his tongue. Only once he was sure he could swallow the words, let them burn his throat and not the charged air between them, did he let himself nod.

Elen'n gestured toward the clerk. "There is one last charge." She glanced at Ronon, looked back at Teyla. "Understand that this is our message to Lantea – it is not directed specifically at you."

"Great," Ronon deadpanned. "Let's hear it."

The clerk squared his shoulders. "Your allegiance is not with us," he said. "Your superiors live elsewhere; your people do not bear the consequences of your actions as ours do; you may leave this place at any time, after any event." He looked directly at John. "You do not share our fate."

John clenched his hand into a fist, released it again, watched as Rodney gaped, mouth working uselessly before he managed to offer "But . . . but . . . but . . . "

 _It's not true_ , John finished for him. _We've lived and died here, we've overhauled our lives; this is our home as well._

Elen'n offered a polite, even cheerful smile. "We have arranged a private room in which you might discuss these matters," she said, as if this were suddenly a summer visit and tea might be served. "There will be food and drink, and should your deliberations last longer than the day, we will be happy to accommodate you through the night."

John stared at her, wondering exactly when she'd lost her mind. "Yeah, see, that's great and all, but I think this is the kind of thing we need to discuss back at base." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Toss those charges over here and we'll be on our way."

Elen'n shook her head. "You will not leave the compound until negotiations are complete, Colonel. We will not give you the opportunity to begin a war."

" _Hey_ – " John began, anger flashing.

"You've got some nerve," Ronon said, standing too. "You're supposed to be peaceful people? This is hostile, all of it."

"We believe peace is served in the long run by a breach in etiquette in the short," Elen'n explained. "You will be well treated. You will not starve, nor be uncomfortable. We will bring you changes of clothes and provide the opportunity to bathe."

"But – let me guess – we don't get our weapons back," John said. "You'll take our radios, and we don't get to leave our room."

Elen'n nodded. "It is for the best."

Ronon laughed, turned to face Teyla, who stood, causing Rodney to scramble to his feet. "If we agree to this, there will be no recording devices allowed in our quarters," Teyla said tightly. "We will be left alone. You will not disturb us except for matters of food and drink."

"Agreed."

Teyla nodded once. "We must be allowed to report in to those who wait for us if the day draws on."

"That is acceptable."

Teyla looked at John; he jerked his chin, settled his hands on his hips. "So be it," Teyla said, addressing Elen'n again. "You, not your servants, may lead the way."

*****

"This is bullshit," Ronon said, kicking a chair once they were left alone. "An ambush." The chair skittered, knocking into a serving table that stood against the wall, setting the glasses and pitcher of water resting there to ringing.

"There's no way the SGC, the IOA will agree, absolutely none," Rodney put in. "I don't even understand why they think – even if we accept the blame for all the things they said, which would probably be fair, except I'd like them to recognize there were others who played a role, the Replicators are assholes and we're not holding Wraith hands to anyone's chests, and don't even get me started on the Ancients – but even if we accept the blame for everything, do they think all those problems disappear with us?"

John paced in front of the leaded windows, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "How did we walk into this?" he asked no one in particular. "How didn't we hear at least a _whisper_ this was going on?"

There were lush, upholstered benches against two walls of the room, a table in the center where they could plan, or eat. Teyla sighed and sat down in a chair. "This is what troubles me," she said.

"That we didn't know?" Rodney asked. "That's what troubles you? Not the fact that, oh, I don't know, we're essentially prisoners unless we make something that is _absolutely impossible_ possible?"

"No, she's right," John said, rubbing his chin. "We have allies out there. No one told us. There's a unity to this thing that just. . ." He shook his head. "It's a lot of work, getting that many people in a room."

"So let's call Woolsey," Ronon said. "Tell him what they want, get him to start piecing this together. We can't get intel from in here."

"And when we tell him?" Teyla asked. "He will say no to their demands – or if he does not say the word himself, he must relay the request to Earth. The SGC, the IOA – they will refuse." She folded her hands in her lap. "At that point, what do we do?"

"If he sends back-up, they'll take them prisoner or shoot them down," John said, putting himself in Elen'n's place. "Either way, it's gonna escalate."

Rodney swallowed, and John watched him rubbing the fingers of his right hand against his thumb. "How many groups were out there, do you think?"

"Hundred, hundred and fifty," John murmured. "More."

"A hundred and fifty separate worlds?" Rodney asked. "Are you sure you're not – I mean . . . some of them dress an awful lot alike and . . ."

"Think about the pollution," John said, looking at him. "That's why your readings were different this time – they've been ferrying people in for days."

Ronon lowered himself to a bench, kicked up his feet and folded his hands behind his head. "It's gonna turn into Lantea versus them."

John grimaced, imagining that kind of war, what it would feel like to stand with Earth while rebel communities were targeted and destroyed for protesting a catastrophe already delivered. "Shit, this is a disaster," he said, itching to do a little protesting himself, to point out to someone, anyone who'd listen, that they'd only been trying to do their goddamn best.

"I do not wish the humans of this galaxy to sink into war," Teyla said fervently. "Michael, wherever he is, will do nothing but gain from such a scenario. The Wraith will take delight in the allegiance of so many people turning against Lanteans." She met John's gaze and he saw her unspoken concern for her son. "We must do all we can to avoid it."

"And god, imagine if the IOA gets in on this?" Rodney asked. "I mean – this kind of threat? They'll think it's smart to drop a dozen nuclear bombs on the ringleaders and call it a win."

"But it's not as if we can just give up Earth's best defense against the Wraith, either," John snapped, scrubbing his hands over his face. The cat's-cradle twist of his responsibilities made him sick with frustration, his thoughts turning back on themselves, constantly honing in on an impossible center: _this is home, this is home_.

"They haven't thought this through," Ronon said, jerking his head toward the door. "The Juni'i. The rest of 'em."

"Or they have too great a faith in our ability to prevail, in our guilt, our reluctance to object," Teyla murmured.

"Hey, I objected," John said, thoughts snapping unbidden to the things he give up if they acquiesced, if the policies of god knows how many years were reversed and they just withdrew. "I distinctly remember objecting." His room; his favorite jumper; Jinto's brand new farm; Rodney's labs.

"But you understand their reasoning," Teyla suggested.

"Well, sure. Okay. I mean, I grant some of what they said, yeah." John rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension in his back, trying to beat back images of the control room, the south pier, the gym; to imagine walking through the gate and giving it up, settling for Earth – and shit, when had Earth become _settling_? "But the idea that this isn't . . . that we don't _share_ in what goes on here?"

"John." Teyla shook her head sympathetically. "You were recalled last year. You went home."

John's gut cramped unpleasantly at the memory.

Rodney gaped at her. "And we didn't want to go! You saw yourself, we were the last ones through the gate – hey, we were the _first_ ones back through!"

"And the city was in the hands of the Ancients," John said, voice low, her words hitting too close to an end he didn't want to think about, that he couldn't help but imagine would be a lesser life in exile. "That's a little different from just abandoning it altogether."

"Not to mention there's the tiny matter of the gene," Rodney muttered. "What use is Atlantis to any of them if they can't turn anything on?"

"You miss my point," Teyla said patiently. "I'm simply observing that their thinking is rooted in precedent. They do not know you as we do; they see only your actions; they do not see how you feel."

"So, call 'em in here and . . ." John grimaced, wondering what he'd say. "Okay, maybe not."

"Must be a middle way," Ronon offered.

"Middle way?" Rodney asked wearily, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down. He bent to loosen the laces on his boots.

"Meet 'em somewhere in between. Maybe you can offer medical training or something, you know? Bring in the teachers from other worlds, show 'em the database."

Teyla raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. "Perhaps."

John nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "It's a start," he conceded, willing to grasp at straws. He sat down at the table too. "Okay. McKay?" He nodded at Rodney's pockets. "Take notes. Let's figure this out."

He resolutely didn't imagine having to pull his Johnny Cash poster down from the wall a second time.

*****

John had learned within a week of meeting Rodney McKay that the man was too much to handle when approached as a whole – it was always better to consider him not as a sum, but in his parts. It worked pretty well as a personnel management strategy; it worked even better as a method of denying the hot, prickly, adolescent feelings John had been nursing since Rodney faced off against an energy cloud and saved them from a black, shadowy death. He tended to strategize and focus on bits of Rodney – feet, elbows, the back of his hands. Shoulders, ass, and mouth were unequivocally blacklisted, which left John contemplating Rodney's stubble that afternoon as a way to furiously distract himself from the twin poles of exile and disaster. After contributing everything he could to a discussion of security procedures, there was nothing he could add to Teyla and Rodney's dissection of the labs. He drifted. It was better than arguing over the number of people who could plausibly gain something from access to a centrifuge, even if it earned him smack to the head when Teyla realized his thoughts where elsewhere.

He figured he deserved it – a military commander who couldn't spot an ambush at fifteen paces; former black-ops, hoodwinked like a boy scout; forty years old and still preferring to crush on guys from afar than do something about it and risk a little, risk too much. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and tuned back in; tried to find something meaningful to say about the relative trade value of an MRE.

Elen'n came to them after many hours, summoned by Teyla's entreaties to the guards outside their room, wearing the linen of an ordinary scribe. "You have made a decision?" she asked doubtfully.

"We have forged a proposition," Teyla said, bowing her head slightly. It was the barest deference, but John felt some charge in the air lessen as Elen'n's mouth quirked in something like a smile.

"You are an Emmagan through and through," she said with rueful warmth. "Very well. I will listen."

Teyla wet her lips, paused before speaking. "We cannot, we four, agree to your demands. We lack the authority to make such enormous decisions on behalf of so many."

Elen'n's eyebrow twitched.

"But we recognize the truth in much of what you have said and wonder . . ." Teyla paused, smiling cautiously. "Wonder if we might not try to persuade our leaders to begin again – to share what we have not; to train those who would welcome such training; to work more equitably among the peoples of this galaxy."

Elen'n looked thoughtful; John watched impassively, careful not to let even a passing thought of hope show on his face. "Access to the city?"

"Yes. There would need to be security procedures put in place, protocols agreed on by a governing council of Pegasus and Lantean peoples. This could not happen quickly. But we are willing to try."

Elen'n drew in a long breath, her lips pursed. "I will have someone bring your radios, but all transmissions will be . . ."

"No," Ronon said gruffly. "This has to be face to face. You gotta let us go back."

"Impossible," Elen'n said, shaking her head. John shoved his hands in his pockets to better ball them into fists.

Teyla spread her hands. "It is the only way for us to resolve this without either side misreading the other and . . ."

"Is that a threat?"

Teyla laughed softly. "I need not make threats. One of your own complaints is that Earth's peoples have unleashed their military might in this galaxy without due thought to the consequences. I wish to avoid that as much as you do – we _all_ wish to avoid that."

Elen'n said nothing for a long while, staring at the table, gaze unfocused. "I will let you and Specialist Dex leave," she said at last. "The others will stay as collateral."

John narrowly avoided swearing. "Hey, now," he broke in. "We don't break up the team."

"This is non-negotiable," Elen'n said softly. "The military commander of Atlantis? The chief scientific officer? These are prizes that will keep the assembled delegates in check as much as they will urge caution upon Lanteans."

"Well that sounds lovely," Rodney said, folding his arms. "Dissent in the ranks, already?"

"You have nothing to fear from me," Elen'n offered. "And we will make sure you are well taken care of during your stay."

John wanted to kick something – none of them had brought up the idea that the Juni'i would want some kind of insurance. If he were in Elen'n's shoes, he'd want exactly the same thing; didn't mean he had to like it. "We accept," he said gruffly.

"We do?" Rodney yelped. John blew out a breath, arranged his face into blank agreement, nodded when Teyla looked his way.

Teyla nodded back, shifted her attention to Elen'n. "We will return to Atlantis and consult with those in command there," she said, "and return here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Elen'n repeated, her doubts clearly written on her face.

Teyla extended her right hand, palm upward. "You have my word," she said clearly.

Elen'n nodded and placed her own hand, palm down, atop Teyla's. "So be it. _Davashn'ai._ "

*****

John had figured that 'staying overnight' meant someone would haul in a couple of cots; that he and Rodney would push back the table and try not to go stir crazy in the boxy little room they'd been trapped in for hours. But the Juni'i had other plans. "You must excuse us," Gata said, as she led them through a maze of corridors, guards at their front and back. "Our guest quarters are taxed at this moment, but we would not have you stay in cells." She pushed open a wide, wooden door and gestured for John and Rodney to step inside. "Your room."

"Well," said Rodney as he crossed the threshold.

"Huh" John managed, eyeing the sumptuous bed that took up almost all the available space. This was going to be excruciating.

Gata cleared her throat. "Food and drink has been provided – " she gestured toward a platter on a table by the wall, " – and you will find fresh clothing in the chest below the window. A small bathroom is through that door." She pointed to the niche on the eastern wall. "I hope you will be comfortable."

"Yes, yes, of all the prisons we've been in, yours is _definitely_ the nicest," Rodney said sarcastically. "Can't wait for the ritual flogging. Bye-bye now."

Gata hesitated for a moment, then bowed her head and withdrew, locking the door behind her.

There was a long moment of silence between them. "Cheese wedge?" said Rodney at last.

John accepted the offer – sat on the bed and gestured for Rodney to bring over the platter of meat, cheese, and fruit, tasted a little of each before he allowed Rodney to do the same. The day was dying – the sun was beginning to set beyond the room's leaded windows – and he was tired, antsy, defenses growing weak, worry leaching into his blood.

"You think Teyla will convince them?" Rodney asked, nibbling on something that looked like a strawberry but tasted like a grape.

John dusted his hands on his pants. "No."

"Me either."

"Yeah." John idly considered beating his head off the wall.

There was silence for a while as Rodney unlaced his boots, as John walked the perimeter of the room checking for listening devices, radios, cameras and the like. He stuck his head in the bathroom, decided he might as well take a leak, splashed water on his face and stared at his reflection as if the gray in his hair and shadow of his stubble would prove some sort of inspiration. Nothing came to mind but the vague supposition that he was old enough not to walk into this sort of crap anymore.

By the time he re-emerged, Rodney was already in bed, his uniform folded and set on top of the clothing chest. It seemed a pretty good idea, to give up on the day and try to sleep, so John perched on the mattress, yanked off his boots, skinned out of his shirt and pants, tugged off his socks.

"I don't want to," Rodney said in a rush as John eased in beside him. "Go back to Earth, I mean."

John blew out a breath, leaving as much space between them as humanly possible. There was only so much a man could handle in the space of twenty-four hours, and considering everything, John felt it best to consider himself some nineteenth-century prude, ready to explode at the merest hint of Rodney's ankle. "Why not?" he asked carefully.

"Why not?" Rodney repeated. "Because – because this is _home_ now. Because this is where I _fit_ , where I'm useful."

"You're always gonna be useful, Rodney."

Rodney snorted. "In locations entirely covered with snow, yes; with whiteboards and algorithms and completely inanimate objects, sure. Here I'm . . . here I've got . . ." His voice trailed off.

John tried to ignore the discomfort building inside his own chest. "Family," he offered.

"Exactly." Rodney sounded put out, churlish, as if he were annoyed that he'd had to claim the word. "I mean, if we went back to Earth, I'd never see Teyla again. Never see Ronon. I'm not even sure I'd see _you_ very often, and that would – "

There was an audible click as Rodney shut his mouth. John turned his head. "And that would what?"

"Be. Uh. Unfortunate," Rodney finished.

The room was growing dark, but John could sense Rodney's face was burning, even if he couldn't see it. His own pulse jumped, stuttered, settled again, and he breathed out, tried to think about anything but the tinny rattle of Rodney's voice over a cell phone connection back on Earth. "I'd definitely miss beating your ass at video golf," John suggested weakly.

Rodney spluttered. "Oh, _please_. I'm not the one who tried to bribe Radek to hack the system and – "

"You _already_ know how to hack the system," John pointed out.

"Well, you're playing against a genius," Rodney shot back. "Those are the breaks."

John smiled wickedly, soothed by the familiarly of their banter. "You know you'd miss team workouts at the gym."

"Like I miss ebola, syphilis and gangrene every day of my life," Rodney sniffed. Silence rolled in comfortably between them, filling up the spaces around their thoughts. "You realize," Rodney said at last, "that to everyone out there today we're the British in India?"

John rolled with the non-sequitur – on some hesitant level he'd been thinking the same. "French in Vietnam."

"How about the whole of Europe in the whole of everywhere else, and the whole of the United States in the whole of . . . . Jesus, we're Rudyard Kipling on _acid_."

John huffed a rueful breath. "Nice."

"It's true," Rodney sighed. "We came on in here and set up shop and never once questioned that we had the right to do so. And they're right, we don't share well, which – well I can hardly be held responsible for that, it's been a failing since I was very small, I'm pretty sure I sent another child to the hospital in playgroup once because I beat him with the block he was trying to steal with his impressively filthy little paws, so _someone_ should have pointed out that it was important I share, I don't tend to get that sort of thing on my own, but . . . "

John turned over onto his side, peered at Rodney in the gathering dark. "How do you think we could've done it differently?"

Rodney swallowed. "I think putting Ellis in the brig would've been a start. Him and the general he rode in from."

John managed a painful smile. "Maybe we should never have re-established contact with Earth," he said. "Maybe we could've – "

"Fought off a Wraith siege with one partially depleted ZPM?"

John sighed. "Yeah."

"I don't know that dead is a better choice."

"Me either," John said, closing his eyes, reaching for the uncomfortable truth that wouldn't quiet down. "I don't . . . want to go back, either. Not for good."

Rodney turned onto his side – John could feel the pitch and roll of the mattress as he settled, feel the slightest brush of breath against his face. "This is home," Rodney whispered. "With the crystals and the jumpers and the teeth-cracking pancake batter and . . ."

It might have been the product of John's imagination, of thoughts he'd been repressing since Rodney faced down a shadow and came out alive, but he swore he heard _and you_ at the sentence's end. He lay awake, eyes closed, pulse pounding, and tried not to say it back.

It only made things more complicated.

*****

Morning came early, in the guise of two cases of unruly bedhead, thick porridge, an argument with the guards over toothbrushes, and a bracing drink not unlike coffee, even though the Juni'i served it cold. By the time John followed new guards into the hallway, Rodney at his elbow, the world seemed almost manageable again, and there was always the outside chance that Ronon and Teyla brought good news.

"Well?" John asked as soon as they were alone.

"The IOA won't negotiate with terrorists," Ronon said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, _please_. Terrorists? You'd think people who'd spent years battling with the Ori would have the _tiniest_ bit more perspective."

"The IOA regards your imprisonment to be an act of aggression," Teyla explained, "much as we thought they would."

John sat down heavily, tracing patterns on the tabletop as he imagined the hundred ways this could play out. "You get anyone through the gate?"

Teyla shook her head. "We were escorted back by Tenotian guards and a company of soldiers from M'non. They are still positioned there – any reinforcements, a jumper; it would all have been interpreted as military action and met with force."

John nodded tightly. "Unacceptable risk. You talk to Elen'n?"

Teyla pulled a wry face. "She has gone to communicate with the lead council of delegates and her Juni'i colleagues. We brought transmissions from Mr. Woolsey, General Landry, the IOA . . ."

"I can only imagine," Rodney groaned, sitting at the table.

"None of it'll do any good," Ronon said. "No one's going to change their mind. They've dug in their heels."

"So we gotta work on getting out of here," John said calmly. "Without . . ." he gestured, "making things worse."

"Elen'n seems to imagine that the position of the IOA is mere bluster," Teyla said, sitting down. "She is unconcerned that a first overture has been refused – it is as though she expected it and has plans for what happens next. There must have been meetings throughout the night – I felt no such certainty from her yesterday."

John glanced at Rodney and away, fairly sure he knew the role the two of them would be forced to play in any attempt to persuade the IOA to alter its response. "Guards in the corridor?"

"Two outside the door," said Ronon. "Two at every door after that. There are four at the archway to the Great Hall and they're watching the roads in and out of town."

Teyla leaned in a little. "Could the Daedalus beam you directly from your quarters to . . ."

"Repairs," Rodney said with resignation. "It's been docked on the east pier for two weeks – an upgrade to its hyperdrive. The earliest anyone could get it up and running would probably be a couple of days, and to get _here_? A week, perhaps?"

John scrubbed at his face. "I don't know that we can hold this together for a week. Any of us."

"I agree," Teyla said softly. "And I believe it will escalate before seven days are through."

There was a sharp rap at the door before Elen'n swept into the room, face set in unnatural blankness, as though she were hiding fury. "Your visit is over," she said to Teyla. "Two of my men will escort you – "

"We just got here," Ronon protested.

"And it took no time at all to reach a verdict on the proposals you carried," Elen'n said. "If your job is to act as mediator, Specialist Dex, I suggest you hurry back to Atlantis." She handed over a packet of papers. "Take these to Mr. Woolsey. A hover transport will take you back to the gate, and you should tell the Lanteans to expect video communication within the hour."

John clenched his jaw, felt his stomach roll. Things were moving faster than he'd thought.

Teyla glanced at John, met his gaze, nodded once and rose from her chair. "Be strong, Rodney," she murmured, bending toward him in an Athosian embrace. "John."

"Be back tomorrow, buddy," Ronon said, squeezing John's shoulder, clapping Rodney on the back before he left.

"What's happening?" Rodney asked, looking between John and the door, the door and Elen'n. "What am I not getting? Hello? Someone?"

Elen'n inclined her head, addressed her words to John. "You are aware, I am sure, that your people have turned down our offer and your attempt at compromise."

John nodded. "Yep."

"Which is why we must impress upon them how serious we are," Elen'n said. "I am sorry that it has come to this, but . . ."

"I'll do it," John said without a moment's hesitation.

"What?" Rodney asked, confused and irritated. "Do what?"

Elen'n nodded in John's direction. "It will not take long. And you will not be killed."

" _What_?" Rodney yelped. "Okay, someone tell me what the hell is going on!"

"I'll explain it to him," John said to Elen'n. "Just give me a minute."

"There is time," Elen'n conceded. "We must give your superiors a quarter hour or more to prepare, for the communication link to be established."

"Sure."

"I will have Dr. McKay returned to your guest quarters," she said, and withdrew.

Rodney leapt out of his seat the moment she was gone. "They won't _kill you_?" he asked.

"Not today," John said blithely, getting up and stretching his arms above his head, rolling out the knots in his back.

"Great!" Rodney said, borderline hysterical. "That's good to know! And since they won't be killing you today, you mind explaining what they _will_ they be doing? And how the hell you're – why you – what you're _thinking?_ "

"They need to make an example of one of us," John said calmly, projecting every laid-back, unfazed ounce of energy he had. "Something to try and raise the stakes a little, make the IOA change its mind."

"Are they crazy?" Rodney asked. " _Nothing_ is going to make the IOA change its mind! The IOA is entirely constituted of individuals who have surrendered their minds to their asses – they don't have minds to _change_. And what do you _mean_ , an example? What? What are they – what?"

John shrugged as effortlessly as he could manage. "Little roughing up, I expect. Shocks? I don't know."

Rodney paled, mouth falling open. "No."

"Rodney, c'mon, what's a little penance between . . . "

"No, no, no. You don't get to – "

"How bad can it be?" John asked, offering a lazy half-smile. "I've already had the life sucked out of me by a Wraith on primetime – you really think they've got something worse?"

Rodney closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered. "I think this is Pegasus and anything is possible," he said tightly. "And that – why did you _volunteer_? God, you're the kind of guy who doesn't wait to be told he's going to be dropped into shark infested waters, you walk the plank for _fun_."

John quirked an eyebrow playfully. "Pirates, huh? Didn't know you were into that, McKay . . ."

"Don't," Rodney said, shaking his head. "Don't. It's not . . ."

"Look, I'm trained for this," John interrupted. "Trained for it, heal up pretty quick. It'll be fine."

A knock came on the door again, and two guards appeared. "Now," one said gruffly.

"No," Rodney said.

"Rodney, it's not up for argument . . ."

"You should've let them pick me."

John let out a breath and studied Rodney's boots. "You're too important," he said, very low. "There's no way I'd . . ." And he didn't look back when the guard pulled him away.

*****  
John didn't remember much of the journey from the Great Hall to their room – his vision kept graying; his feet didn't quite work; sounds seemed to travel across great distances to reach his ears. More real to him than the corridors through which he was carried were the faces of his men, of Teyla, Woolsey, Ronon, watching him bleed, standing in his imagination at the other end of a flickering video link. He groaned weakly as he was set down on a bed, as argument and accusation flared and snapped close by, but it wasn't until someone sat down beside him that he figured he might, if he worked real hard, be able to focus on the ceiling and the wall, bring his eyesight back from its defensive blur.

"These people are _fucked in the head_ ," Rodney snapped, fussing with something beside him. "Which is probably why, oh yes, _you fit in so well_." And he clamped something cold to John's upper arm, made everything in that limb sting like hell.

"Jesus," John managed through a gasp. "What the fuck are you _doing_?"

"Antiseptic," Rodney muttered. "Shut up right this second or I will pour raw alcohol in your wounds and leave you to _bleed out even more_."

John whimpered and closed his eyes, let his head roll to one side against the pillows. They smelled of Rodney. "Wasn't so bad," he mumbled.

"Please. You are the color of my Great Aunt Patience's albino farmhand. You can barely stand, you are _covered in blood_ , and you're going to scar. Congratulations! If we make it out of here you'll have fourteen reminders of your overdeveloped sense of self-sacrifice, seven on each arm. At least you're symmetrical, so please don't date anyone who's into abstract art."

"No dating anyone but you," John murmured clumsily. "Only little cuts."

Rodney fumbled his hold on John's arm and muttered something John didn't understand. "Newsflash!" he snapped, regaining momentum. "Blood vessels run through all human tissue! Shallow cuts bleed just as effectively as deep ones! If you wanted to give thanks, bless their _generous_ hearts for not going after an artery. God, you're a mess."

For all Rodney's bluster, John could hear every note of worry he was trying to hide, plus something else, panicked and confused. He blinked and tried to focus. "Hey."

"Don't hey me."

"Bought us a little time."

Rodney wrapped gauze around John's upper arm, fingers quick and competent as they tied off the bandage. "I'd just prefer not to have you . . . not to – " He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "What did you mean I was too important?" he asked. "I've been thinking about it ever since you left and I can't . . . what does that even _mean_?" He reached for a cotton pad and wet it with more antiseptic solution, slapped it against the next two cuts.

John grit his teeth and almost stopped himself whining. "Ow."

"Yes, ow, that's what happens when you offer yourself up as the demonstration agent for Chicago knives. Back to 'no dating anyone but you?'"

"Look," John said, swallowing and trying to clear his mind – where the hell was Rodney getting this stuff about dating? "My job is – is to look out for you, right? Protect you. I'm supposed to . . . do this shit."

"Right."

"Rodney." John turned his head and looked at him. "I . . . " He frowned, trying to figure out what to say.

Rodney's expression was warm, broken open. "Well?"

"I just – I think . . . you _matter_ , might be . . . " And his vision grayed again, Rodney disappearing as the world went black.

*****

When John woke again he was still shirtless, but clean, propped up against all their pillows, both arms bandaged, throbbing and sore. "Mmmmmph," he mumbled.

"Hey," Rodney said, turning around at the table the Juni'i had been using for their food. "How're you feeling?"

"Ugh," John clarified. "I . . . ugh."

Rodney poured a glass of water, shook two pills from a plastic bottle into his hand. "Tylenol with codeine," he said. "Had them in my tac vest." He offered them to John, who patently didn't take them.

"M'fine."

"Take the pills or I will find salt and rub it into your wounds," Rodney said briskly. "I am not even kidding."

John made a sound of disgust at the back of his throat, but took the pills, swallowed them with cool, welcome water. "Did they feed you?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Yes, yes, heaven forbid the hospitality of our hosts should fail. They keep me locked in, but they bring me all the food and drink I can manage. They cut you to ribbons, but when they bring you back, they hand over medical supplies and drop off beef broth just in case your _iron's_ low."

"Beef broth?" John asked, confused.

"Well." Rodney uncovered a dish on the side table, handed it to John with a spoon. "Beast broth, at least."

John sniffed the contents of the bowl, spooned up a mouthful and swallowed warily. "S'good," he said, surprised, and spooned up a little more, focusing on the mundane rather than the shaking that was trapped at his core.

Rodney nodded tightly and went back to his chair. "We didn't really get to finish our conversation," he offered.

John sipped his soup steadily, peered at Rodney over the rim of his bowl. "Huh?"

"I'm important?"

John swallowed a mouthful of broth, and wondered for a second if this was the real reason Rodney gave him pain pills – loosen him up? Bliss him out? "Course," he said, and coughed to clear his throat. "Chief science officer, remember?"

"Right," Rodney said, smiling tightly. "That's why you offered up yourself instead of me?"

"Rodney . . ."

"Important," Rodney said again.

John drank more broth to buy himself time, to give his brain an opportunity to bury four years of stolen looks and sharp-witted conversation more deeply than usual, to pretend he'd never indulged in a fantasy or four, never looked longer than usual, never found his heart beating in his throat because Rodney's life was on the line. "What d'you want me to say?" he drawled, dispensing with the spoon and drinking straight from the bowl.

"You went down there to give Atlantis some time – "

"So?" John asked, uncomfortable with where this was going.

"But also, maybe – and this is . . . " Rodney stood, paced a step or two, paced back. "I've been thinking about this all day and slowly losing my mind, so don't think of denying it and driving me the rest of the way insane, okay?" He faced John head on. "You went down there because you couldn't stand to think of that – " he pointed to John's arms " – happening to me, could you?"

"How is that news?" John asked, deflecting. "You been sitting around, thinking hey, Sheppard'll turn me over for torture the first chance he gets?"

" _Stop_ it," Rodney said. "Stop . . . just stop. I get it! I get why, if you did, if you do, if you have, why you couldn't say, but Jesus, we're about to get kicked out of our home or killed in some war, one or the other, or maybe there's some _spectacular_ way the universe can conspire to do both, so this is the end of Coy Hour with Sheppard, okay?"

John swallowed, his breathing shallow, dropped his head and stared at the bowl cradled in his lap. "Rodney . . ."

"Just tell me," Rodney said.

John closed his eyes, felt a cold sweat gather at the crease of his elbows, at the back of his neck. "Yeah."

Rodney sat down with a thud. "Wow."

"Yeah, wow," John said, wiping his face with the palm of his hand. "Okay, ritual humiliation time is over and – "

"Me too."

John's head snapped up. "What?"

Rodney looked as if he were trying to smile, but his expression had more in common with a grimace than a grin. "I've been, well, carrying a flame I guess you could say, since – if we're speaking purely in terms of approximate dates, times, events, then round about, probably, roughly since . . ." He swallowed awkwardly, twirled a hand in the air. "Um. The math thing. The – all the math things."

John gaped at him, his previously crowded thoughts dissipating, leaving his mind utterly blank. "You – you . . . . _why the hell didn't you say something?_ "

Rodney snorted. "Right, because that would have gone over well. Dear Commanding Officer of the Atlantis Military Contingent, Please Be Gay With Me. And it's not like I even knew you liked guys! You've never demonstrated any preference for hanging out with guys! Except . . . me. And Ford. And Ronon. Oh god, do you like Ronon too?"

"No, I do not like Ronon," John spluttered. "Besides, he's seeing Keller."

"He is?" Rodney blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah, for like two weeks."

Rodney scrunched up his face. "I thought they were just hanging out. Friends."

"And this is why it never worked out with you and a woman," John sighed.

"You can talk," Rodney shot back. "With your glowy – "

"Not this again," John groaned.

"– ascended . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, leather-clad, hot alien . . ."

Rodney scowled. "You never told me she wore leather."

"Rodney, _Sam_ wore leather. Teyla wears leather. Everyone on an away team wears leather, it didn't seem important information, all things considered."

"Leather is always . . ." Rodney seemed to catch himself and blushed furiously. "Anyway, done with that bowl? I think the guards will take it if I knock on the door, save us from smelling beast broth all night, do you need some water?"

"No," John said mulishly. "I'd rather you figured out what we're going to do now we know."

Rodney set the bowl on the side table and wiped his hands on his shirt. "Do?"

John stared at him in amazement. "This mutual _thing_ we just – almost admitted to, this . . . _thing_. You wanna do something about it?"

"Pardon me for not imagining you'd be up for position number fifty-six in your condition," Rodney snapped.

"What?"

"Kama Sutra," Rodney confessed.

John blinked and thudded his head back against his pillows two, three, four times. Sadly, it didn't hurt. "How about we make out?" he managed between gritted teeth.

"Oh." Rodney rubbed his fingers against his thumb again, a sure sign of nerves. "Oh. Yeah. We could . . ." He took a step toward John. "Only the truth is I never actually thought we'd _do_ anything and so now I'm freaking out."

"Yeah, well, get over it," John growled. "I got _cut on_ today, and the world's going to end, so get take your own advice and quit with the coy."

"Right, right," Rodney said and sat gingerly on the bed, lifting a hand to rest it on John's shoulder. "No coy. Got it. Hi."

"Hi," John said back.

"So, I should probably do the leaning, since you're . . ."

"That'd be good."

"Right."

John watched as Rodney's gaze flickered over his face. "Anytime . . ."

"Right, right." And Rodney blew out a breath, closed his eyes, and leaned in. Their noses collided.

"God. _Fuck_ ," John moaned. "Are you trying to – "

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney mumbled, reorienting himself, "I'm just . . ." And he closed his lips over John's, held the kiss for a long, quiet moment, pulled back just enough for them to rest their foreheads together.

John's breath came in unsteady hitches when he tried to fill his lungs. "Right," he whispered.

"Hi," Rodney said randomly, and shifted again, nudged John's lips with his own, began to gently learn their shape, his mouth and stubble a blur of texture rasping against John's jaw. John parted his lips, licked his way to Rodney's mouth, shivered when a smile welcomed him, when he touched Rodney's tongue. His mouth warmed and his skin pebbled as Rodney scratched fingertips up into his hair.

"Come and sleep," John said when they finally pulled apart.

"Uh-huh," Rodney nodded, and kissed him again.

******

Things were as awkward the next morning as John could have reasonably predicted, had he ever turned his fantasies toward the business of mornings after, instead of groping Rodney's ass. They woke, and stared at each other; both tried to talk; winced and grimaced and one of them swore. "How about we just – "

"Yeah, we can – "

"My teeth are pretty – "

Rodney nodded. "Mine too. I'll uh . . . shower first?"

"Awesome," John said, and tried to smother himself as soon as Rodney turned his back.

Things eased over breakfast; by a second cup of almost-coffee Rodney tried to steal a kiss. Had John realized that was what he was doing, it might have gone better, but their second attempt improved, and their third was pretty good. By four and five they were spread across the bed, breathing hard, hands fisted in each other's shirts, Rodney holding himself up on his elbows, trying to avoid touching John's arms.

"So this is all it takes, huh?" Rodney asked. "For you to 'fess up? Imminent intergalactic doom?"

"Says _you_ ," John threw back. "What, you wrote me poetry and sent me flowers, I just didn't notice?"

Rodney winced a little. "You're not going to want me to write poetry and send you flowers, are you? If we get out of this mess?"

"Maybe," said John, just to watch Rodney's face turn puce.

For a little while John took the thing he wanted and kissed Rodney's lush, agile mouth. There was nothing he could do to hurry news from Atlantis, and he let Rodney tend to the gashes on his arms, took painkillers when Rodney offered them, forgot what it was to be military first and John Sheppard second, to deny himself someone else's touch to make sure he had somewhere to belong. It was like regaining feeling in a limb gone numb – odd and uncomfortable, a prickling burn that faded, leaving only a heightened awareness that this wasn't the way things had always been. It was madness to feel a sense of freedom, locked in a bedroom on some alien world, but imprisonment kept regulations at bay, held military matters at a distance John couldn't hope to close. He slept that morning, curled on top of blankets, and woke with Rodney's hand splayed over his skin, felt his heart cramp then skip and pause as if actually considering the whole situation before it fell back to its regular rhythm, warmth bleeding through his body as he turned his face into Rodney's hair.

Hours passed, and by the time Elen'n came to their room they were deeply invested in a modified game of Prime/Not Prime (in which all Not Primes had to be divisible by thirty-three or twenty-nine, and you had to know which). John instantly snapped to attention, sliding off the bed and standing with his back to the window, mind running a hundred projections of what could have brought her to them – none were good.

"We have heard from Atlantis," she said, and her expression was grave.

Rodney stood up looking wary, scared, desperately hopeful. "And?"

"And they have once again declined to meet our demands. We have not, it seems, fully impressed upon them that we are not afraid, that we will see this through." She looked at John. "We are forced by their actions to raise the stakes once more."

Rodney took half a step toward her, toward John. "Okay, none of yesterday's crap with half-verbalized agreements and talking above my head. What exactly do you mean?"

Elen'n paused. "It was the decision of the council that if they failed to meet our demands we would be forced to . . . sacrifice a hostage in response." She met Rodney's horrified gaze without flinching. "I am sorry it has come to this."

"You're supposed to be _peaceful_ ," Rodney said, eyes wide, hands animated. "'We're a peaceful people, you will not be harmed' – those words sound familiar? Because it's really not that long ago since your minions said them and unless you all have selective amnesia you're a bunch of lying _jerks_."

"Rodney," John said softly.

"Oh, no," Rodney said, turning toward him, mouth set. "Don't even think about volunteering for this one, or trying to talk me down, or suggesting this is reasonable, or talking to me about _duty_. This is bullshit! You are not dying – _I_ am not dying! Neither of us is dying, end of story!"

John ducked his head, breathed in slowly, forced his mind from the track it had been running on for twelve improbable hours and gathered up the pieces of his military self again. "Could you give us a little time?" he asked Elen'n. "Just to . . ."

She nodded. "Of course. You may knock on the door when you are ready."

"It'll be a long wait!" Rodney yelled at her as she withdrew.

John waited for a moment before he tried to say anything. "Rodney, we gotta buy Atlantis time."

Rodney looked at him through narrowed eyes, mouth tight, color burning high on his cheeks. "You are unbelievable."

"This is what we . . . what _I_ do," he said reasonably.

"No, no, it's really not, because see, your job is to make Atlantis safe. And this? This doesn't do that. This only ensures that the IOA's going to bomb the _shit_ out of these people the moment the Daedalus is operational because the fine nuances of sacrifice are going to go right over their heads and they're going to want revenge. It's not a fair fight, but it won't matter – the people out there'll take some of our people down as messily and painfully as they can. You die? Others die. This doesn't do what you want it to do, this is _fucked_ up and stupid and you are _out of your mind_ if you think I'm going to let you do it."

"We don't have a choice," John pointed out. "We're outnumbered by, oh, what, five hundred to one?"

"So we think of something else."

"Like _what_?" John asked. "You think I haven't been trying to come up with . . ."

"Some way to throw yourself on the bomb so that at least you die knowing the rest of us are alive, making it worth it?" Rodney spat. "Here's a newsflash – you're actually valuable _alive_ , you reckless dickhead, to your men, to Atlantis, to . . . okay, fuck it, yes, to _me_. You didn't want me to get filleted yesterday, fine, I get it – I don't want you shot in the head today, and if you get to decide someone matters, _I_ get to decide someone matters, and I veto you and your self-sacrificing, asinine, I'm-doing-it-for-the-team _bullshit_."

John breathed out slowly, trying to stay calm, but god, he could strangle Rodney with his bare hands right now and take deep, lasting pleasure in doing it. "We are outnumbered," he repeated. "We don't have a choice."

Rodney tilted up his chin. "Yes we do."

"What? What can we _possibly_ do to change this?"

Rodney breathed out through his nose and crossed to the door, knocked and stepped back so that Elen'n could enter. "Are Ronon and Teyla here?" he asked waspishly.

She nodded. "We have not yet dispatched them to Atlantis."

"Then we need two hours in a room with them and an opportunity to present a new proposal. Think your peace-loving selves can handle not offing us until then?"

Elen'n raised an eyebrow. "I do not think . . ."

"Yes, well, that's been the problem all along, hasn't it? You not thinking. But I'm willing to overlook that for two hours in a room with my team and the chance to talk to you after that. And I'm hungry, so if you want a solution that doesn't boil down to intergalactic warfare, I suggest you have someone bring a lot of food, because I do _not_ work well when my blood sugar's low."

Elen'n glanced at John who spread his hands. "I got nothing," he said, genuinely nonplussed.

"Two hours," she said.

"Two hours," Rodney nodded. "So, let's hurry it up, chop chop."

*****

"John," Teyla breathed when he was ushered into the meeting room. One of her hands was white-knuckled on the back of a chair, and her smile was weak. "We thought you – what we saw yesterday, it seemed you might . . ." She laughed softly "It is good to see you."

"You too," he grinned, crossing the room to greet her, bending his head to hers. He looked up, smacked Ronon on the arm, whined and laughed when Ronon grabbed him and put him in a headlock so that he could kiss the top of his head. "Get off me, you dumb sack of . . ."

"We did not think we would see you, either of you," Teyla said hurriedly. "We were preparing to leave when we were recalled."

"Hmmm, yes, well, I suggested we might be able to come up with a counter-offer," Rodney said, standing with his hands behind his back at the head of the table. "Rather than allow them to _kill_ one of us, that is, as a prelude to intergalactic bloodshed on an awe-inspiring scale."

Ronon narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"C'mon, big guy," John said. "Stands to reason they'd . . . you know."

"Fuck that," Ronon offered.

Teyla let out a breath and sat down. "It is indeed a common practice to – " she paused, wetting her lips, " – kill hostages in order to force the hand of . . ." Her voice faltered and she lifted her chin.

Ronon grimaced. "Dumb," he said forcefully. "It'll just – "

"Yes, yes, believe me I've already heaped upon Sheppard's head all the ways in which it will make things worse." Rodney said, rocking back on his heels. "Which is why we have only one option left."

John waited. "Which is?"

Rodney wet his lips and blew out a breath. "We secede."

There was a long moment of silence, then Ronon bounded across the room, caught Rodney up in a hug and lifted him off the ground. "All right!"

"Wait, wait," John said, stretching out a hand. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It could work," Teyla said, frowning slightly. "There is a chance that this would appease the delegates, that . . . " She looked at Rodney. "Are you sure?"

"Seems to me their objection is that we answer to people who don't give a crap about this galaxy, except in terms of what it can do for them," Rodney said. "If we remove that obstacle, if we're a self-sustaining entity, another planet in a confederation of Pegasus homeworlds, if we can work out an alliance with Earth in which we continue to offer defensive service, then . . ."

"Would you all just hold on a goddamn minute?" John yelled. "Break away? You're serious – you're suggesting we just . . . secede from Earth?"

Rodney looked him in the eye. "You want to go back?"

"Well - _no_ , we've covered that, but that's hardly the point – "

"This is _home_ ," Rodney said deliberately, angrily. "And we didn't ask to make a choice but here it is, we have to. We can either side with the IOA and you can die and the rest of us can watch everything _good_ we've tried to do here fall to pieces, or we can throw in our hand with the people who've, despite their troubling proclivity for knife play, been sitting out there in that hall for god knows how long, trying to figure out a way to live. Which do you want?"

John stared at him, heart pounding, hands damp with sweat. "It's not as easy as that – there are regs, people have families, _you_ have family, there's an infrastructure." Rodney seemed unswayed. "Who stays? How do we feed people? How do we not get blown to shit by whatever expedition force the IOA sends? How do we – " He gestured toward the door. "How do we convince _them_ that we're serious?"

"First, if you think I'm going to live in Pegasus the rest of my life without working out how to contact Earth and send Jeannie every noxious email meme I can dredge up from the archives of our servers, you underestimate my capacity for evil," Rodney said. "Second, we simulate war, just to buy us time." He offered the idea as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "And as for _them_ . . ." Rodney looked down at the table, then back at John. "We convince them by letting them do to me what they did to you."

"What?" John asked, gaping. "Are you - _no_."

"If we walk out of here today we raise the suspicions of people on either side," Rodney snipped. "The IOA needs to think this is all still up for negotiation, and the delegates . . ." He squared his shoulders. "They need some gesture of good faith from us, something to reassure them we're not walking out of here just to lead the war once we're home."

"Rodney, do you realize what you are offering to do?" Teyla asked. "What they . . ."

"I cleaned him up," Rodney said stiffly. "I understand."

"No, you don't," John said angrily. "Because you don't know what it's like to be tied down and know that everyone back home's watching this on a feed. You don't know what it's like to try and protect your own dignity while someone's trying to make you scream, and the only thing going through your head is how much this has to be _hurting_ the people who are watching. You ready to lie there and think of Keller and Teyla and Ronon and Radek? You think Lorne's gonna enjoy watching you bleed? 'Cause I get that you think it's all heroics, but lying there, what you feel? It's failure."

Rodney smiled bitterly. "You think I won't feel a failure when they drop the bomb on Jun'aatan? On the infamous planet of the kids? You think I don't feel a failure _now_?"

Teyla stood, hands outstretched toward both of them. "We must talk this through. We must plan, if this is to be our strategy. We must know every contingency before we agree to try."

Ronon pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'm ready."

John swallowed and looked at them all, his family, his team, thought of cleaning Rodney's cuts, thought of holding Teyla's child. He imagined base housing, a cookie-cutter box of a house with a handkerchief lawn; his father's grave and his brother's empty promises. He pulled out a chair. "Can't believe I'm fucking doing this," he said as he sat.

"I can," Ronon offered, and John flipped him the bird.

*****

"I cannot promise you anything," Elen'n cautioned. She was dressed in her green _tensa_ robes again, the fabric whipping about her ankles as she walked. "We are agreed, as a confederation, on the need for Lantean withdrawal from this galaxy, but as with most disparate communities, we are opposed on much else. I have no sense of how the delegates will respond."

"I got nothing to lose," John said tersely, still angry that it was true. The sleeves of his laundered t-shirt were chafing against the cuts on his upper arms, further fraying his temper. "May as well try."

Elen'n nodded. "I admire your dedication to . . ." She quirked an eyebrow. "Many things, Colonel."

John looked over his shoulder, back at the rest of his team, who followed a discreet distance behind. "Yeah, well, maybe you people over-generalized about us a little, huh?" He sounded pissy; he was feeling pissy. His record was nothing but a catalog of exactly how much he hated this sort of situation – warring loyalties; his team, Atlantis, Earth, the never ceasing, pain-in-his-ass chain of command. But people could live if they figured this out, or people could die because Atlantis, viewed from Earth, was just some military base without a history, some outpost where no one had amends to make. He owed this galaxy something, and he owed every asinine IOA stuffed shirt on Earth the chance not to make things worse. Every goddamn thing he'd done in his life, he supposed, had been leading up to this.

Elen'n drew to a halt at the archway that led into the hall. "You may all enter," she reminded them, "but only one may speak." She looked at Rodney.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, because I am incapable of following instructions when my team member's life is on the line. Absolutely. Thanks for the tip."

"Then, if you are ready, I will begin the proceedings," she said, waiting for John's nod before she entered the Hall, leaving them in the company of guards. Dimly, John heard the sound of a gavel striking wood.

"Any last words of advice?" he asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Don't swear," Ronon offered.

John grimaced. "Thanks, buddy."

"Remember that you do this because it is true to who you are," Teyla counseled. "Do not doubt yourself. This is right."

"Right. No doubt," John agreed. He looked at Rodney.

"Screw this up and you'll never get to sleep with me," said Rodney.

John snorted, ducked his head. "Just the image I needed while . . . " His words slipped away as a guard stepped into the corridor.

"You've been called," he announced.

John nodded. "Here goes," he murmured and followed the guard's lumbering steps back to the Great Hall's main floor.

Despite lacking the shackles that had bound his hands the day before, it was no less disconcerting for John to stand quietly before the crowd this time, fresh meat before a pride of lions. He glanced around the room, met the eyes of anyone who'd look at him, noted which leaders wouldn't, clasped his hands behind his back and willfully ignored the way his injured arms burned.

"You would address us?" asked Elen'n, sweeping out her hands to encompass three sides of the room. "You have our ear."

John nodded, fervently hoping he didn't fuck things up. "So, let's cut the crap," he said venomously, and a dozen delegates hissed.

"Colonel Sheppard," Elen'n snapped.

"See, here's the thing," John continued, ignoring her. "It's fair to lay a lot of shit at our feet – waking the Wraith, the Replicator war, Michael, the first Hoffan virus. We screwed shit up. No doubt about it. You don't have to tell us anything – we can tell you chapter and verse."

"Leave!" shouted someone from a western tier.

"But if bleeding makes you part of a place," he offered bitterly, "we've earned our spot." He paused, breathing hard. "The men and women I command have laid down their lives to keep this galaxy safe. I'd name them, but hey, I've lost too many to _count_. The first commander of Atlantis lost her life helping to blow the Replicators out of the sky, so don't you dare suggest we've been untouched, that we don't know. We get it."

The delegates stirred, their voices building then ebbing away.

"We've chosen this place," John snapped, "over and over. None of us are planning on retiring to some beach while you fight it out with Michael's hybrids, or protect your families from the cull. You need it formalized? Fine - we'll break ties with Earth, throw in with you. If there's war coming, you'll know we're on your side, not on theirs."

One of the Juni'i dignitaries stood, clearly astonished. "Why would you do this?"

"Like I said, this is _home_ ," John ground out, wishing to hell they'd just listen, get it, stop forcing him to withstand the friction burn of words that named things he'd rather just sense.

"Madness," shouted a stray voice in the crowd.

"We should agree to their proposal!" yelled another.

There was a sudden clamor of voices, some delegates standing, others gesturing from their seats. Elen'n hammered on the table until she summoned a reluctant quiet. "And is there some token of faith you can offer?" she asked.

John swallowed hard, breathed in and out – once, twice – before he trusted himself to speak. "McKay'll let you . . . what you did to me," he said. He cleared his throat. "It'll keep Atlantis guessing while we get plans in place." His stomach rolled and he ground his teeth. "Time."

Elen'n nodded, and the sympathy on her face was enough to make John want to punch someone, hard, again and again. "We will call you back when a decision is made, Colonel." She gestured for guards. "Enjoy our hospitality while you wait."

John turned back to his team, stuffed his hands his pockets to hide their sudden shaking. "Lemonade and scones," he said, unsteadily. "Just what I was . . . you know. Hoping for."

Teyla smiled at him, tilting her head. "This was well done, John," she murmured.

"Yeah?" John said, looking at Rodney, impulsively reaching out to close his fingers in his sleeve.

"The Declaration of Independence had more . . . verve," Rodney sniffed, mocking him a little, almost smiling.

"Better than cutting off your hair," Ronon offered, and shoved them bodily out of the Hall.

*****

It was twilight by the time the delegates voted a tenuous approval to their plan, raised hands setting in motion a hundred possibilities. Ronon and Teyla left moments after, and their absence spoke change to John more eloquently than all the plans they'd collectively made and unmade that afternoon, revised, torn apart, and pasted back together. Standing in the anteroom, staring at the knots in the wooden floor, John let the enormity of their decisions roll through him, wave upon wave of consequence a battering ram, testing his resolve.

"Hey," Rodney broke in, gently. "Guards are here. We can go back to – " John looked up, saw Rodney jerk a thumb over his shoulder. "You know."

"Yeah," John nodded, and closed his hand into a fist so that he couldn't reach out and touch.

Their bedroom was clean again when they reached it – linens smoothed, breakfast cleared away. Rodney sat on the bed, scrubbed his hands over his face. "Should we . . ."

"I'm gonna take a shower," John offered, as if that's where Rodney's sentence had been heading, and he ambled to the bathroom just to put a door between himself and everything in the world, everything in the galaxy, god, everything that was _everything_. There was a panic fluttering in his chest that he couldn't name, that wouldn't calm, and though he climbed into the shower the water didn't help, or the sharp-scented soap, or the scrape of his hands over his aching arms. He let the water run cold before he gave up on figuring out the words he needed, stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, padded out to the bedroom to find Rodney staring at nothing, dressed in the loose, cotton clothing the Juni'i had left for them to wear. "You okay?" John asked, panic morphing inside his chest, becoming something slick and painful and just as unfamiliar.

"Hmmm?" Rodney asked, turning to look at him. His gaze snapped into focus, and he offered a rueful smile. "It's nothing." He gestured feebly with one hand. "I think it's finally sinking in, that's all. What I said I'd do."

The words came then, tumbling into the spaces left by ruined defenses, sparked by the force of an unlooked-for kiss, until there was nothing in place to hold back John's affection, to choke off movement and still his hands. Where inertia had flourished spread a strange, urgent warmth, and he reached out for Rodney, curled his hand around the back of his neck. "You don't have to," he whispered, meaning it, without a clue how he'd undo what they'd set in motion. "I'll – "

"Do what?" Rodney asked, one corner of his mouth hitching into a sympathetic smile.

"No idea," John breathed. "Something?"

Rodney closed his eyes, leaned into John's touch, into the scrape of his thumb over stubble. "I can be brave," he said, as if John doubted it.

"Jesus," John murmured, and leaned in, kissed him, cupped the other side of his face and held him steady. "Asshole," he whispered, lips against Rodney's cheek. "You think I don't know that? You think I . . ?" And his lips found their way to Rodney's again, kissed him harder; he felt Rodney shiver, head to toe.

"Scared stupid," Rodney mumbled, tucking his face against John's neck, winding his arms around him, "which is my least favorite kind of scared. You know?"

"Yours and mine both," John said back, naming the panic and the worried flicker of blame in his chest, and that was it, exactly the distance between what they'd done and what they hadn't, making it easy to slide his hands beneath Rodney's shirt, to coax damp cotton away from skin, to let Rodney pull aside his towel, to crawl naked into bed. He pressed desperately up against Rodney's body, felt hair rasp against his belly, pitted the power of his thighs against the trembling in his fingers, arched and gasped into Rodney's mouth, beneath Rodney's hands, found a dozen places to press his lips and make Rodney moan. They rocked frantically one moment, slowly the next, fitted elbows and knees into whatever space the twisted sheets would grant them, rubbing sweat and spit and breath into each other's skin. They came gracelessly, tangled, one after the other, and John's eyes burned, his lungs emptying, his heart crashing noisily in his chest. Rodney closed his eyes when John touched his face, his eyelashes glancing past the tips of John's fingers, and John kissed his throat where blood thrummed quick and certain beneath the skin, made a soft, low sound when Rodney pressed a shaking hand against his back.

"You can't stop me from doing it," Rodney whispered. "Even when they come, even if I . . ."

"I know," John said. "I won't." Rodney's fingers tightened against his back and relaxed again; John nudged his nose into Rodney's hair. "I'm gonna want to."

"Yeah."

"Would've wanted to before this."

Rodney nodded. "Yeah."

John swallowed past the litany of need in his throat. "Bet you wish you'd taken some desk job now, huh?"

And Rodney opened his eyes, watched him for a long, aching moment. "No," he said. It just about broke John's heart.

*****

The minute the video link was severed, there were medical teams at Rodney's side – the Juni'i's own healers and three Fleura medicine women; a Dala delegate scrambling down from the stands, her cloth bag of remedies clutched between white-knuckled fingers as she sang the strange-lilting melody her people used to summon power. She made it to Rodney's side a moment after John, touched John's elbow, nodded, her face writ with a warmth John could barely stand. "Fix it," he said curtly, embarrassed for his own helplessness, for the careful eloquence he'd never had.

She smiled at him – some inexplicable expression of agreement – and bent to her work, stemming blood flow, binding wounds.

"That really fucking sucked," Rodney managed, and John wiped his face, pushed snot and tears and sweat aside with his own hands.

"Its okay now, buddy," he whispered. "It's done. You did good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," John said. "Way better than me."

"Liar," Rodney gritted out, wincing as someone injected painkillers into the crook of his arm. The sharp smell of antiseptic was overpowering.

"You saying you don't like my poker face?" John asked.

Rodney's focus was loosening, the lines of pain on his face easing away. "Rob you blind," he said with some stab at authority. "Take back . . . the DVDs you . . ." He blinked once, twice. "Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere," John promised. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

"Home?" Rodney asked, eyes closing sluggishly.

"Sure," John whispered, and watched him fall asleep.

It was twelve hours before a transport ship could plausibly head to Manaasha, carrying them aboard like errant runaways. Rodney slept through all twelve, head pillowed on John's thighs once they were settled in the hold of the ship, water, soft bread, and small fruits in a woven bag beside them. "The drugs will break down in his system before you reach Atlantis," Elen'n explained, crouched beside John, her escorts setting blankets beside the food. "There will be no trace that we were complicit in your leaving, but the journey will be more comfortable, I think, if he sleeps."

John nodded, hand resting on Rodney's back. "What about bandages – first aid?"

She shook her head. "Were this truly an escape you would not have time to secure such things before leaving."

John grimaced. "Yeah."

"His wounds have been well cared for. There should be no dangerous after-effects." She stood and rubbed the knuckle of her thumb against her collarbone, a gesture of nervousness or blessing, John wasn't sure which. "I wish you luck, John Sheppard," she murmured. "This is a strange and complicated path that we did not . . ."

"Right." John swallowed, exhausted, ready to sleep, to feel the welcome hum of engines beneath his body and let himself be lulled by flight. "Well. So long." He wrinkled his nose.

Elen'n smiled her understanding. " _Davashn'ai,_ " she murmured.

"Yeah, that," John said, and lifted a hand – it seemed polite – as she left the ship and the bay doors closed. "You sleep like a dead weight," he mumbled at Rodney, but shook out a blanket, covered him head to toe, rested a hand against his neck so that he could catalog the reassuring thud of his pulse.

It was another day before they gated back to Atlantis, stinking of sweat and engine oil. Despite everything – Rodney's drowsiness; their hunger; the crippling weight of their ragged plans – John couldn't help but feel relief when he stepped across the event horizon and felt the city's welcome rise up through his bones. "Need a med team down here!" he yelled, easing Rodney to the floor. He knelt beside him. "All right, buddy. We're back. We're home."

Rodney laughed softly, coughed and winced. "Better be," he muttered. "After all this. Need a shower. Coffee . . ."

"Anti-fucking-septics," John hissed.

Woolsey clattered down the stairs. "Colonel, how did you . . ."

John straightened as the med team swooped in, gathering Rodney up to set him on a gurney. "Stowed away," he explained, eyes darting from Woolsey's face to Rodney's wrists, to the dance of Biro's flashlight near Rodney's eyes. "Took a transport to M3X-494, gated back."

Woolsey frowned, worry deepening familiar lines on his face. "The Juni'i must surely know you're gone. Why haven't they contacted us?"

"Things are pretty confused," John explained, heart beginning to race. "Since the resolution. A couple hundred people leaving the planet, diplomatic packets going out, I bet they don't realize we're off-world until . . ."

"Resolution?" Woolsey interrupted.

"War," John said tightly, remembering how it had felt to face the prospect at other times; he stoked the memories. "We've got about five days until salvaged Olesian craft reach us and we're back under siege." He batted at the medic who was trying to check him for injuries. "I'm fine. Go help _McKay_ – wounds on his . . ."

"We saw," Woolsey said, words clipped. "The Juni'i were generous in their video feeds this week. I had no idea my tenure as commander would be quite so . . ."

"Colorful?" John asked.

Woolsey wrinkled his nose. "That's one way to describe the experience."

"And I'd love to compare notes," John said earnestly. "But we should probably start making plans."

Woolsey nodded, touched his earpiece. "Senior staff to the briefing room immediately," he ordered. He glanced at John, taking him in from head to toe. "Is there anything you need? We can't afford the time for you to clean up, I'm afraid, but if you have medical needs, stimulants perhaps . . ."

"I'm fine," John said, nodding smartly; he could work the injured hero angle, get some mileage out of that. "I'd rather get down to work."

"Certainly. Make your way upstairs as soon as possible, Colonel. I'm anxious to hear your report." Woolsey turned around, narrowly avoided a team of Marines, and headed for the stairs.

"Sir?" Lorne said, drifting up to stand at John's elbow. "Ronon briefed me on the combat situation. On the special division you'll be assembling?"

John met his gaze, gratitude skittering down his spine; one more ally he could count on. "Tactical plans once the briefing's done," he said. "Armory, 1900 hours."

"Sir," Lorne nodded, and he left John alone with the hum of the gateroom, looking up at Atlantis' stained glass windows, trying to grasp the scope of what he'd set in motion for his home.

*****  
There wasn't time to talk to anyone before briefing Woolsey; John sat down in one of the conference room chairs, wishing he'd had the forethought to make up some kind of code. It could have all been so innocuous: _welcome back, John_ for _we're all set, buddy_ , and _how are your injuries?_ for problems. _The Pigs Fly At Midnight_ , he thought to himself as Zelenka bustled into the room. Always good to go retro for _We Are Totally Fucked_.

"Rodney is okay?" Zelenka asked, emptying his arms of a tablet and half a dozen styluses, a pen, two markers, and half a power bar clattering onto the table. He pushed his hair back from his face and sat down, all his attention on John. "We were worried."

"He's fine," John said, slouching in his chair. "He stinks a little, but . . ."

"So do you," said Teyla smoothly, joining them and offering a small smile. "It is good to see you, despite the aroma."

John snorted as she sat in a chair across the room, nodded at Ronon as he did the same. "Not a lot of showers in the hold of a transport ship."

"Which transport ship was that?" Woolsey asked, hurrying into the room with precise steps, notepad already in hand, old-fashioned fountain pen between two fingers. "You're sure you weren't detected?"

John stared him down for a second, raised an eyebrow to give him a full measure of his usual, passive incredulity. "I'm sure." He leaned forward, spread his fingers on the table. "Took a Giit trade ship; slow, not much good for anything but hauling goods, but it got us off Jun'aatan. Like I said, things were pretty confused."

Woolsey nodded. "Perhaps you could bring the others up to speed?"

John nodded. "The Juni'i, they're pretty pissed," he began, and sketched out the bare bones of a rebellion that wasn't taking place, a united front of Pegasus worlds prepared to besiege Atlantis, fight for the opportunity to live their lives as they determined was best, without interference from Earth. "They've been working on this for a while – salvaged some of the security craft from Olesia, been upgrading. They can keep us tied up for a long time."

"Weapons capabilities?" Ronon asked.

"The usual. Some Ancient tech. They've got enough gene carriers to activate what they need, the Larrisians, those folks from P37-47Y; the Taranians are no slouches at figuring stuff out. I saw some modified Wraith technology – they could do some serious damage without landing; they've got more ships that we do, even if we launched a full compliment of F302s."

"Shields?" Radek asked. "Do you know if . . ."

John shrugged. "Can't be sure. It's a good bet – hell, if they have half a dozen Olesian engineers . . ."

"But surely our shield will hold against them?" Woolsey asked.

"Oh, yes, most definitely," Radek agreed. "But we are looking at a siege situation – we have only the Daedalus, yes? Perhaps if nuclear weapons were brought through the gate, we could . . . but even then, delivery is a problem, we have lost several jumpers in recent months and . . ."

"So a siege it is," Woolsey interrupted. "Recommendations?"

"We should evacuate all non-essential personnel," Teyla offered. "A siege will put normal operations on hold – many could be spared; protected."

"Botanists," Ronon suggested. "And those guys with the books."

"Of course some may wish to stay," Teyla said gently. "Many have been off-world and received weapons training; they may feel it is their duty to . . ."

"Certainly," Woolsey agreed. He pulled in a breath, made a sharp note on a sheet of paper. "Each division will draw up a list of who will stay – we can provide non-military personnel with some degree of choice, but . . ."

"I'll take care of military," John offered, looking up as Keller slipped into the room – she smiled at him; he took it as a sign that things with Rodney were good.

"Doctor Keller," Woolsey acknowledged. "We're preparing for siege." He turned back to John, missing the stunned wash of shock that crossed Jennifer's face. "I had assumed that all military personnel would . . ."

"We should send people back to train replacement forces," John lied, watching as Teyla leaned in to whisper in Jennifer's ear. "If this is going to take a while? We'll need to rotate personnel, maybe change which companies come through the gate. We're not talking about an immediate stand-off – were' talking back-up, relief. A lot of men and women at SGC have never been here and . . ."

"I suppose that makes sense." Woolsey made another note.

"Stores," said Ronon. "Food. Water."

"We'll need to restock the armory," John added.

"And the infirmary?" Woolsey asked, turning to Jennifer.

"Uh . . ." She looked at John for a second, then at Teyla again. "Well, I'd said six months of regular supplies, at least, and if we're expecting battle casualties . . ."

"You'll draw up a list," Woolsey said, making note. "How are Doctor McKay's injuries?"

"Healing. He'll be up and about later today. Mostly he needs fluids, and I have him on IV antibiotics just in case he . . ."

"Rodney can work on the Daedalus," John said easily. "Speed up the repairs."

"Excellent." Woolsey scribbled something to himself and ended the sentence with a jab of his pen. "I believe everyone knows what they need to do? Colonel Sheppard, if you'd join me in thirty minutes to contact General Landry, I believe . . ."

"We will keep you informed," Teyla said with a slight nod.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, quite, keep me informed." Typically, Woolsey was already halfway out the door.

Teyla met John's gaze. "Welcome back, John," she smiled.

*****

"The strategy we've devised is really quite excellent," Woolsey said smugly; Landry's pixilated face on the other end of a video feed showed no judgment yet. "Siege preparations have already begun, and we'll begin evacuating non-essential personnel on your command. With Dr. McKay returned to base we can speed up repairs on the Daedalus, have the ship ready for battle before the Olesian ships arrive."

John shifted attentively; it was surreal, listening to Woolsey deliver unwitting half-truths.

"Dr. McKay's injuries are sufficiently healed?" Landry asked.

"He could use some more downtime," John offered, stepping forward. "But impending doom's usually a pretty good incentive program where McKay's concerned."

"Indeed." The video feed flickered and stilled. "Colonel Caldwell will gate back to you when the repairs are done – in the meantime his contribution to tactical planning here will be invaluable, allow us to plan for a galaxy-wide assault while you concentrate on Atlantis' defense."

"Yes, sir," John nodded, making a private note to have Rodney hack into those records before they split from SGC. He tilted his head, decided to try for the touchdown. "If there's any chance we can get a ZPM, sir, we could make do with a smaller military contingent," he suggested. "I understand they're the holy grail, and everyone wants one, but since the new discoveries in Egypt . . ." He hitched a shoulder, set his hands on his hips. "With a ZPM we could maintain the shield against the Olesian craft more easily than we did against Wraith Hives."

"Good thinking, Colonel," said Landry. "I'll see what I can do. Keep me updated – we'll do everything we can from our end. Goddamn uppity sons of bitches, thinking they can just . . ."

"Thank you, sir," John said, cutting him off.

"General," said Woolsey, and severed the video feed. He paused for a moment before turning to John. "I think you should know," he said hesitantly, "that I spoke to the IOA before communicating with General Landry, and at my recommendation, I'll be returning to Earth to brief the international oversight team. A short-term visit, naturally, that is, if you're comfortable in command." He swallowed. "This is, after all, a military matter, and I am . . ."

John smiled at him as blandly as he could, privately rejoicing. "I think Atlantis will be well served by you going to Earth," he said sincerely. "And you'll be moments away should – "

"Wormhole travel," Woolsey nodded.

"Exactly."

Woolsey breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief. "So, I'll be chasing down those inventories."

"And I'll get ready to receive equipment," John said with a bigger smile.

*****

It was late afternoon when John met Teyla, half by intuition, half by design, on the far balcony of the second telemetry tower. "So?" he said, stepping out beside her, blinking for a second at the wind that pushed into his face.

She smiled at him. "How are you feeling?"

He squinted back. "How am I _feeling_?"

"You have weathered much since I last saw you. It cannot have been easy to let Rodney . . ."

"Right. So." John reached up and scratched the sudden, pressing itch at the back of his neck. "How's it all going? With the stuff."

Her smile grew indulgent. "The _stuff_ goes well," she said. "Radek, Lorne, Jennifer, Chuck, Tremblay, Williams, Dowell, Atran, Seale, Smigiel, Fox, Biro, Boggs, Light, Kusanagi, . . . "

"Huh." John stepped forward, curled his fingers around the upper balcony rail. "You work fast."

"There are many more," Teyla said. "We have been careful not to broach the subject with those how have expressed disdain for the peoples of this galaxy, or with the distance of Atlantis from Earth – Kavanagh's all-but-kin were not approached."

"Smart," John grimaced.

"You are worried?" Teyla asked gently.

John shook his head. "It's just . . . floating the idea to people, we're throwing ourselves open to . . ."

"Jennifer stays because she has not yet forgiven Woolsey for suggesting Davos should be studied, more than he should be made comfortable, even healed," Teyla offered. "Seale loves the stories that the Mantrastin children tell her, wishes for them to grow up in a world where they are the decision-makers. Dowell would very much like for the peoples of this galaxy to come here, to read what is stored in the vast libraries of the Ancient database. Her work has disappeared to earth; she wishes it to flourish in the furthest reaches of the Hagalnian stars."

A corner of John's mouth twitched. "Can we make that happen?"

"We can try."

John pulled in and let go a long, deep breath. "Lorne said yes."

"And many of the men and women under him. He has a gift for diplomacy that I believe he has honed as Rodney's sometime off-world partner in these past months."

John laughed softly. "Yeah. It'll be good to have him on board."

"Do you doubt your decision?"

John closed his eyes for a second, heard Rodney's whimpers, the small, helpless sounds he made through gritted teeth as he was cut. "I shouldn't have let him – "

"It was not your choice to make," Teyla counseled. "It was not your body to withhold or to offer."

"He's my _team_ member," John protested.

"And he is a brave man, with a mind and a will of his own. I did not enjoy watching him suffer, any more than you, but his strength, John – his willingness to . . ."

"I know all that," John snapped, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'm just reconsidering the wisdom of signing up with a bunch of people who use _torture_ to . . ."

"And is it so very different to when Elizabeth ordered Kavanagh hurt so that we might gain the access code to the altered ZPM failsafes?" Teyla asked. "Have we not held Wraith without food for weeks at a time? These actions are not materially different because they are deployed against us, or against someone for whom we care." She pulled at his elbow, forced him to face her. "These are not tactics we should embrace – you are right to be discomfited. But put yourself in their position. Is there anything you would not do to protect your people? Your home?"

John wrinkled his nose. "You're being annoying."

Teyla smiled. "I often am."

"Yeah, well, you're . . . you, I guess."

Teyla raised an eyebrow, amused. "And you are also still yourself." She studied his face. "These actions might be unthinkable to another, younger John Sheppard, but it is who you are to question situations you believe are unjust, to take action even against the orders of those higher in your chain of command."

"So I'm doing the right thing," John said deadpan.

"You are doing the only thing," Teyla murmured, and brought his forehead down to her own.

And John rested there a moment, paused amid the whirlwind force of a siege being prepared.

*****

John threw himself into work, didn't see Rodney barreling down a hallway with a clutch of scientists in his wake, nose buried in a coffee cup, until he almost tripped over him, blinded by the crate of C4 in his arms.

"Hey, McKay," John yelled, just to make himself heard over Rodney's evisceration of Simpson's suggestions about desalination safety.

"Can't talk now," Rodney said, waving a finger. "About to save the world from water shortages."

John shifted the C4. "I need to know how you're planning to – "

"I'll check in by radio!" Rodney said as he and his brood swept past, bickering among themselves.

"Make sure you do!" John yelled after him, more to have the last word than anything else. He hefted the box higher in his arms, swung back toward the armory, and resolutely did not think about the bandages poking out from beneath Rodney's shirt.

Lorne had his Marines already at task, shifting supplies, extending the armory by another room, scoping out a third in case they needed it. "Sir," he said as John dumped his C4 in the appropriate spot. "Looks like we're good on everything but P-90 rounds and a couple of boxes of flash-bangs."

"M91s?"

"Some. Mostly M1911s."

John wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Good weapon."

"Yessir."

"Anything we weren't expecting?"

Lorne gestured across the room. "Handful of zats. X-699s."

John grimaced. "I hate those things."

Lorne shrugged. "They're probably clearing out stores."

"Sure." John glanced at the men and women inventorying, shifting weapons received, assembling storage units. He glanced at Lorne. "Let's take a walk."

The south pier was comfortably deserted when they reached it, the night warm, New Lantea's moons hovering just above the horizon. John stood in silence for a moment, staring up at the sky, soaking up the veneer of stillness that made the stars look absolute. "So what are we missing?" he asked at last.

Lorne stepped forward, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Caldwell's staying Earthside?"

John nodded. "Tactical planning on earth. They're planning a galaxy-wide response."

"Right." Lorne was quiet for a moment. "So the Daedalus is ours; the bridge is gone; we'll lock the gate."

"Yeah."

"Any news on the Apollo?"

"Still nothing." John scratched at his nose, waved away one of the tiny insects that seemed to love human companionship on this planet. "Best guess is a time rift."

Lorne laughed softly. "Exactly what you think you're signing up for when you join the Air Force."

John huffed softly. "And this? You sign up for this?"

Lorne's smiled faded. "I signed up to serve, sir. And I don't think my country or my world's served by anyone coming in here and bombing the shit out of a people we've . . ." He paused, wet his lips. "We can do better."

John nodded, let silence well up between them. "So. We have the Daedalus; Apollo's gone. Odyssey's destroyed. Phoenix is in bad shape."

"Gratitude toward the Ori. Pretty weird."

"So we've got, what, six months?"

Lorne nodded. "No way for them to get out here without a 304. They'll try to access the gate, maybe, upload a virus, something to take control of the dialing mechanism . . ."

"McKay's on that."

"Then we're good." Lorne looked at him, comfortable certainty written on his face. "Six months to figure it out."

John made a face. "Six months for _Teyla_ to figure it out," he clarified.

Lorne grinned. "We'd be fucked without her, sir."

John nodded. "Amen, Major. Amen."

*****

For thirty-six hours the gateroom hummed with the ripple-effect of barely controlled chaos, supplies arriving, personnel leaving, John elbow-deep in the thick of it all. He supervised the distribution of MREs to the mess and the east tower stores, stockpiled water in each wing of the city, left the infirmary's expansion under Jennifer's watchful eye while he quietly changed the security codes for the Daedalus' F302 bay, shut down access to the ZPM. He drank a lot of coffee, ate when he thought about it, checked his watch against the countdown in his own head, and wouldn't have gone back to his quarters at all if not for Ronon's epithets – seemed the Satedan army had a lot to say about the way people smelled.

It was quiet in his room, a quiet that disabled him, made him stand stock still in the middle of floor and look at his golf clubs without even a passing comprehension of what they were.

"You're an idiot," Rodney said behind him.

John turned a little too fast, stumbled but caught himself, glared at Rodney and started tugging his own t-shirt out of his pants. "I need retinal scans programmed into the – "

"Done."

"And in every door between – "

"Done."

John paused, t-shirt wadded between his hands. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"One, yes I do, and two, shut up," Rodney said, grabbing for the t-shirt and throwing it side. "When did you last sleep?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" John asked, heading for his dresser.

"I'm guessing the transport ship?"

"Some," John said, deploying his best _you're pissing me off_ voice.

"That's what I thought," Rodney snapped. "Sometimes your lack of self-preservation skills are stunning, no really, absolutely stunning. How you managed to make it this far without . . ." He grabbed John's arm and manhandled him toward the bed.

"Whoa," John said, arms coming up to fend Rodney off, flapping uselessly when he realized there was nothing to grab except his already injured arms. "Just, _whoa_ , okay?"

"Sadly for you, I'm not a horse," Rodney observed, and pushed him onto the bed. "Go to sleep."

John pushed himself up on his elbows. "You are _crazy_ if you think that . . ."

"And you're crazy _without_ the benefit of thought," Rodney snapped back, sitting beside him, pushing him back down. "That means I win."

John squinted at him, felt himself pout despite his best intentions. "You don't play fair."

"No." Rodney's expression was smug but warm.

"I just need to – "

Rodney sighed and shoved John over, lay down beside him. "Will this help? If I stay here?"

John watched him warily through narrowed eyes. "Help what?"

"Help you _sleep_. Seriously, you're a walking zombie, you're going to say something you shouldn't, and then we'll all . . ."

"I would not."

"Let's not risk it, huh?"

John sullenly shifted onto his side. "It's not that easy to just . . . "

"I think," Rodney said, shifting onto his side too, "that if you try? You might find you're exhausted. Surprise, surprise."

John's eyelids were heavy. "For the record, I hate you. A lot."

"Yes, yes, mortal enemies, blah blah." Rodney watched him intently. "Sleep."

John closed his eyes with a sigh. "Are your arms . . ."

"I'm okay. Everyone's okay. If trouble's coming, we are the agents of our own demise, so stop _smothering_ us to death," Rodney said. "Just give in, hmm? I'll make sure you wake up."

"Keller should look at your . . . "

"I'm okay," Rodney repeated, and slid his fingers between John's own, squeezed his hand. "Now shut the fuck _up_."

Sensing surrender was the better part of valor, just this once, John did.

*****

He felt better for sleeping, and for a shower, even if both ate into the precious hours left before they severed ties with Earth. John kept a running tally in his head of personnel staying and personnel leaving, all mixed up with the math of blankets and coffee beans, antibiotics and toilet paper, clothing stores and armor-piercing bullets. Radek pulled up bogus sensor readings, showed Woolsey a dozen Olesian vessels gathering in deep space and a glitch in the energy systems feeding the Chair. Preparations sped up a notch, urgency transmitted hand to hand, face to face as the outer reaches of the city were locked down, rooms reassigned, rail guns secured to the defenses of each main tower, communication with Earth restricted to emergency use in order to preserve the ZPM.

Woolsey left at 0900 hours, after the final pallet of supplies had been dumped on Atlantis' gateroom floor. It was utterly anti-climatic, to watch the wormhole wink out, closing on Earth, leaving two-hundred-something willing souls alone in the city's cavernous halls. John stared at the empty ring of the stargate, at the bustle of the supply teams clearing crates of medicine and hand-cranked flashlights, tried to contain the reeling, spreading shock that had thudded against his ribs, folded into the crook of his arms.

"Sheppard," Ronon called up from the gateroom. "You're gonna want to see this. Get down here."

John snapped out of his paralysis, clattered down the gateroom steps, slid to a halt by wadded-up plastic wrap and canvas straps that had been cut by a knife. "Whoa," John managed, looking down at a black, reinforced suitcase with battered locks and foam padding, a ZPM nestled inside. He stuttered for another second, then touched his radio, said, "McKay? I'm gonna need to see you at the central power distribution center, _now_."

"What?" Rodney radioed back. "Can't it wait? Do you realize how many subroutines I need to change in the central mainframe before you blow us all to smithereens with your inability to tell between a . . ."

" _Now_ , McKay."

"Oh. _Now_?" John could hear Rodney tripping over things as he hurried out of whatever room he was in. "On my way!"

John got there before him, stood with the battered case in his hands, food poisoning or glee – hard to tell which – curling sly in his belly.

"Here, here," said Rodney, jogging into the room. "Where is it, oh my god, give it to me, give it to me _now_."

"Rodney," John smirked, feeling suddenly, perhaps crazily, playful. "Is that any way to say hello?"

"Hi, you're very handsome and I can't wait for us to have more sex," Rodney said in a rush. " _Now_ can I have my ZPM?"

John leaned a hip against the control console. "How much more sex?"

Rodney gaped at him. "Oh my god, are you insane? This is when you decide to flirt? Does treason turn you on? Because that's really going to put a crimp in our plans for filthy, debauched, messy happy times, I gotta tell you."

John just smiled more broadly. "I like the sound of messy happy times."

"Well, good," Rodney said, still looking at him as though he'd sustained a brain injury. "Hand it over and they might still happen. Keep playing hard to get and I can't be held responsible for what my underhanded genius and mad, mad programming skills will do."

"All right, okay," John said generously, handing the case over, plastering himself against the wall as Rodney pushed past to get to the ZPM storage device."

"Ohhhh, you're beautiful," Rodney crooned, pulling the ZPM out of its foam insulation. "Aren't you beautiful? And you're going to light up the city and make sure we have water and blow all the little evil bastards out of the sky . . ."

John snorted. "Hey, I usually have something to do with that."

"Yes, yes, gene donor Sheppard, we know all about you," Rodney said, slipping the ZPM into place and hurrying back to the console to integrate it into the primary power feed. The ZPM rotated, disappeared into the storage device, and Rodney looked up with a blinding grin. "Oh my god, we got a ZPM!"

"Yeah," John said, sidling up to him. "Woolsey's gone. We're ready. You ready?"

Rodney's eyes grew wide. "Ready, ready?"

John nodded. "Just gotta make the call."

"Wow," Rodney breathed. "Wow. I, uh . . ." His gaze skittered over John's face, down to his chest, back again. "I've been so busy getting ready to be ready that I forgot at some point we were going to be ready. Wow." He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to John's lips. "We're about to do the most bald-faced crazy thing of our lives."

John slid a hand to the small of Rodney's back, pulled him close, leaned in and kissed him without fear of being seen in uniform, without his father's judgment hanging over his head, without caring about anything but how it felt. There was one hell of a mess waiting for them, an uphill battle to convince Earth they'd done the only thing they could to protect two galaxies of people, a military system to face down, their own Bunker Hill, but . . . "Best thing," he whispered, smiling against Rodney's mouth. "We'll make it work. We just gotta – "

Rodney nodded, stepped back. "You have a planet to break up with."

John nodded, elbowed him as they ambled toward the transporter, folded his arms and grinned as he leaned back against a city schematic and shot across the city, into chaos, toward a fresh start. By the time they reached the control room, the stairs and gateroom floor were crowded; Chuck had the first six chevrons locked; Ronon stood hand in hand with Jennifer; Teyla carried her son in her arms. It was humbling, to stand in front of everyone; to look into their faces and imagine their hopes, to catalog the reasons they'd stayed, to think of the life they wanted for themselves and others, to contemplate the bone-deep sense of justice that had them turning their back on Earth. They were reckless and treasonous, or visionaries with some strange share of courage – John saw, for a second, all the ways this could go.

"Dial the gate," he said, positioning himself in front of the video-feed, adrenaline spiking, smile growing as the remaining two chevrons engaged and the wormhole rushed into life. Chuck checked the shield, maintained an audio and video link. "Earth," John said, feeling a strange swell of pride, "this is the independent city-state of Atlantis. . . . "

He glanced over the top of the monitor at Rodney; Rodney smiled at him and mouthed, 'welcome home.'

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Light and Transient Cause [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/373539) by [Lunate8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunate8/pseuds/Lunate8)




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